


Gravidity

by hitlikehammers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hormonal!Mary, M/M, Multi, Pregnancy, pregnancy hormones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:37:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mary realises that pregnancy hormones are kind of a bitch, and Sherlock does his utmost to address her semi-unprovoked sobbing with something like aplomb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravidity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> Because [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope) needs cheering up.

"Sit up straight."

She makes noises. She makes a number of nasally, whimpering noises, all undignified, and none of which approximate actual words in any language she's aware of.

Her limbs are all awkward, all flappy, all _wrong_ , her body's all _wrong_ , and she's pathetic, she really is, she called in to work and she canceled her appointment for the baby and she's the size of a lorry and she's going to die, she's going to hyperventilate and die because she _cannot sit up straight and breathe_ as she _sobs_.

She finds air, somewhere, and it works brilliantly to feed her hysterics.

His hands on her back are firm as he rights her, sits her up and then proceeds to rub, determinedly, up and down the line of her spine.

"Shhh," he tries, very hard, she realises through the haze of _everything_ that he is trying, and that warms her, it's touching, and she sobs all the harder for it.

God _damnit_.

"Would tea help?" he sounds desperate, grasping at straws, and yes, tea would help, she should get up and make some, she should shake herself out from this _nonsense_ , she is _better_ than this, she is _control_ and _precision_ and she cannot even stand without wobbling because he middle's distended like a hot air balloon except it's heavy as fuck-all and her knees are killing her and her ankles are _cankles_ and _god_ —

"No, then, no tea, that's fine, really, quite fine," Sherlock babbles, and continues stroking her back. "I'm rubbish at tea, anyway, so. Probably for the best."

He's not _that_ rubbish at tea, and it makes her cry, that he thinks he is, did she make him think that? Had she been ungrateful?

"Mary, darling, _please_ , just breathe."

She tries, she does try, she _promises_ that she _tries_ but she can't, and she used to be able to, she used to be able to breathe with the silence of the night and the stillness of the dead as she lined up a shot, it's the nursing, it's the nursing that's ruined her, softened her, broken her, and what sort of mother is a broken nurse, what sort of mother is a broken _person_ —

What sort of mother is a woman who is better at shooting people than helping them, oh _god_ —

"Stop that."

Her lungs heave once, twice, three times in rapid, spasmodic chaos before he wraps one arms around her, lays one against the centre of her chest and draws her close, and his body's all tenderness whilst his tone permits no quarrel.

"You are a multidimensional woman with countless redeemable qualities, many of which translate quite fruitfully to motherhood," Sherlock tells her, rattling off like fact: "You are driven, your attention to detail is admirable. You are focused. You are quite intelligent. You are exceedingly dextrous. When not under the ravenous influence of hormones, you exhibit admirable composure."

She laughs, wet and trembling, and buries her face deep in his chest.

"And you're caring, Mary. You are filled with sentiment in a way I couldn't conceive of, before knowing you. You are hard and harsh and fierce and yet the love in you," he cups her cheeks and lifts her chin, starts to brush at the lines of her tears that are lines anymore, aren't tracks so much as a full-faced smudge. She can see her mascara clumped on his pale skin: so much for waterproof.

She nearly starts sobbing again— _waterproof_ —but he's talking, and he's holding her so gentle, and his eyes are bright and they only see her.

His hand on her chest slide down to hold her stomach, warm and light, and it sends shivers through her.

She swallows a full rush of tears and bites her tongue to keep them at bay.

"You treat the patients at the surgery like family. You sent my mother flowers for her birthday."

" _Someone_ had to, Sherlock," Mary gasps, indignant, but he merely smiles, strokes her face as he strokes the swell of her middle.

"You rub John's shoulders when he's tense, without him asking. You knead dough for bread like it's alive, like it can feel. You keep my experiments intact and uncontaminated, even when they overflow the agreed boundaries in the kitchen."

Mary chokes a bit on a watery laugh, because _agreed boundaries_ was a thing she stopped pretending to enforce ages ago.

Mary breathes deep as Sherlock watches her, keeps breathing as she takes in his soft smile and the glint in his eyes as he considers her, like she's brilliant, like she's something to marvel at.

Her heart flutters as he pulls back, thumps hard as he leans in to kiss her nose, the corner of her mouth. The centre of her lips.

She smiles, and her throat feels sore, feels thick, but she's steady.

She's steady.

He stands, and offers her a hand.

"Tea, now?"

She lets him pull her up, lets him pull her too far so that she falls into him just a bit, just enough to give him a proper snog.

The baby kicks, and her smile grows against his mouth, and yes.

She may just make a decent mother yet.


End file.
